Afternoon Tea with the de Chagnys

A/N: Just a few things.

1. From chapter 2, when Erik woke up, until he finally goes to bed in a future chapter, everything takes place over the course of a single day. This chapter is no exception.

2. This is not gratuitous Christine-bashing. I try not to do that sort of thing. I promise it will figure in the plot later on.

3. More is going on here than is immediately apparent.

Christine:

It is fashionable to take tea in the British style at four-thirty in the afternoon. We are fashionable. Therefore we take tea at four-thirty in the afternoon, in the British style.

That's logic—one of the many things Erik taught me.

I can see my daughter Rosalie out in the garden. She is taking tea as well, but because she is only three, her guests are dolls and toy animals, her refreshments violets and daisies, with perhaps a cookie.

That reminds me of five years ago, when Raoul and I would have our little tea parties in my dressing room, with three cookies, glasses of port wine—hardly more than a drop each—and a bouquet of violets.

How happy we were then! I wish I could still be happy like that—simply, uncomplicatedly happy. I wish I could still make a whole meal of one cookie and a drop of port.

My guests are all friends of ours, except that they are not my friends. I can see them giving me sideways glances. They are looking at me, and the plate of little tea sandwiches I have in front of me. I haven't touched them—yet.

Then they retreat into the corners of the room, where they whisper about me to each other.

Friends don't do that.

The problem is that I have grown fat.

If only I could have another child! Then it wouldn't matter if I were fat. If I were pregnant, nobody would care if I were fat. It's the only time in a woman's life when she's allowed to be fat.

All of my life, I've struggled with my weight. I've always feared becoming that living joke, the obese opera singer. The fat lady who sings.

Except that I don't even have that any more. I no longer sing professionally. Or even for friends. I only sing with and for Rosalie, when I give her lessons and guide her little hands over the keys of the piano.

She doesn't care how I look. I am her mother, and to her I am beautiful. She loves me.

I love her—so much that it is acutely painful.

How I wish I could be out there in the garden with her right now, instead of here!

The sandwiches look utterly delicious. There are at least half a dozen different kinds, each one no bigger than an American silver dollar. Their fillings peek out around the edges, teasing me, tempting me to eat.

But my 'friends' are watching.

My friends! I have only two friends in this world, and both of them are so far away! At least I will be getting Meg back soon. She's marrying Baron Castelo-Barbazac next month. Then she will be elevated up into my class, or rather, my husband and her husband's class. It will be so good to see her again—but then I'll have to watch her face when she sees how I've changed.

I dread that. Besides, I can't be open with her—not completely.

My only other friend will never be part of my social class, nor, in all likelihood, will I ever see her again. She's lucky—nobody expects a cook to be slender. Who would hire a skinny cook? I wonder if she's run to fat, herself, yet. On Anne it would look good—it would only make her figure more opulent.

I choose one of the sandwiches. Surely I can have one or two—that will show them I can eat moderately, that I can control myself.

I wonder if she's run out of patience with me and my letters, yet. I can't help it—I have to communicate with somebody, someone who knows, someone who understands. She answers me faithfully. Her letters are one of the few sources of comfort that I have, but it takes her weeks to reply, and they're never very long.

I look down at the plate. There are four sandwiches missing. I ate them without paying attention to what I was doing.

Suddenly Raoul is here, smiling at me—I wonder at what it must cost him to smile at me now, it looks so forced—so strained. "Darling—how well you look. It's good to see that you've your normal appetite today."

There is another sandwich missing.

"Yes—I'm very well, thank you." I tell him, as calmly as I can.

"And our golden Rosebud?" he asks. Rosebud is his pet name for her.

"Is out in the garden." I gesture toward the window. "As you can see, she's well, also. I'd rather be there with her—and with you."

"What a charming idea." He smiles again. "Tomorrow, let's have tea with her in the garden—just the three of us."

"You're forgetting her assortment of friends. Princess Olga and Madame Bear cannot be left out of the party." I smile at him. It makes my face hurt. I love him—how deeply I love him still!

He no longer finds me lovely.

"I stand corrected. You and I and Rosalie and her dozen closest toys will have tea together tomorrow."

"I will be delighted to accept your invitation." I make it sound light—I make it sound natural. What a good actress I am!

There are no sandwiches left on the plate. I have eaten them all. I am a wretched, greedy creature. I am all appetite. I cannot control myself…

Why did I let this happen? What did I ever have to recommend myself but my beauty and my voice? Now I no longer sing, and I have destroyed the other, buried it under a mountain of food!

I make some excuse. I leave the room. I go upstairs, to my room, kneel down over my empty chamber pot, and ram my finger down my throat until my stomach heaves and empties, ridding me of all those wretched sandwiches, leaving me clean.

That's not how I usually do it—vomiting is bad for the throat, bad for the teeth and the breath. It leaves me with tooth marks scratched on the back of my hand. Usually I take a preparation of senna, to hasten the food through my system before it can add to my bulk.

But today I've been worse than usual. I have to reprimand myself somehow.

A/N: It doesn't seem quite right to give you several recipes for tea sandwiches after Christine's bout of bulimia. I'll put them in at another time.

I know this is a brief chapter, but it's the length it needed to be.

Now for my readers:

Thank you, Kei. I love being accused of brilliance. I do take a bit of trouble over both details and characterization, and it makes me smile when people notice.

Lucia: You quoted the exact part that I thought I did best in the whole chapter. Children can be pointlessly, thoughtlessly cruel, but they can also be magnificently kind.

Sue Raven: Yes, Anne has had a lot of life experiences. She started a full time job at the age of eleven—not uncommon, when the career was some form of housework.

Erik's Girlfriend: You can summarize away. I've found it an interesting challenge writing Anne so that her intelligence shows despite her imperfect use of language. I'm glad I'm succeeding. I, too, own Chaney's POTO. The unmasking scene is perfect and has never been equaled, let alone surpassed. Chaney was an incredibly gifted actor, and I have several other movies of his.

Sat-Isis: No! Do not bang your head on the desk! It could damage both your head and the desk!

SperryDee: Thank you for nominating me. You made my day—my whole week!

Allegratree: Thanks! This is my first attempt to write a mystery. Erik is going to be going through some more changes of mood.

Emily: You're welcome, and I have no idea how many chapters this will be. More than 12, anyway.

And hello to Lostschizophrenic, as well!